


this room & everything in it

by plotdevice



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Canon compliant...ish, First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28469253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plotdevice/pseuds/plotdevice
Summary: "It just takes a little patience. Steadiness."
Relationships: Liu Yang Yang/Qian Kun
Comments: 24
Kudos: 120





	this room & everything in it

**Author's Note:**

> for noura, who wanted kunyang (back in... october) and nick, who wanted yangyang getting railed. i pretty much delivered on the first one, but only got halfway there on the second ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

"Is it hard?"

Kun looked over at him. His hand, graceful and steady, didn't stop moving along the top crease of his eye. "Is what hard?" The light at the desk illuminated him oddly--shadows curving over his soft cheeks, the gentle slope of his nose. 

"When you're putting it on like that." The bedframe creaked as Yangyang readjusted himself. He was in his pajamas, ready to sleep; but Kun had asked if he could practice for the Lipstick Prince filming tomorrow, and there was always a little guilt in saying no. Besides, he didn't have anywhere to be the next morning. Outside, it was summer--the Seoul humidity killed, but inside they ran the AC and the fans as often as they could, and so the eyeliner that outside might have melted off Kun's face was cool and dry here. 

"Not very much." As his fingers moved, so did the eyeliner, leaving behind a crisp black line. "It just takes a little patience. Steadiness." 

Seated like this, he could only see Kun's tranquil face in the mirror. The light smoothed out everything else, the bags under his eyes, the minute imperfections of his skin, and left a blank canvas, ready to be transformed by Kun's light hand. 

Patience. Steadiness. He thought about it, and watched Kun work.

  


After the fifth time, he couldn't bear not bringing it up. As Kun started to roll away, probably to deal with the tent Yangyang could see in his pants, hiding his flushed face in the pillow, Yangyang put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Their faces were close together; from here he could see how red Kun was, how wet his mouth, from where Yangyang's own swollen mouth had been just seconds earlier. Kun's eyebrows furrowed, and suddenly Yangyang, who just a few moments before had steeled himself to ask, felt shy and vulnerable. He shook his head, hoping the redness in his cheeks could be chalked up to their previous activities. His own cock was hard, straining in his briefs, but he hoped for no reason that his loose sweatpants would hide it.

"What is it?" Kun's voice was soft; the way he stroked a hand over Yangyang's hair was softer. The contact still made Yangyang's cock throb. "Do you want to stop? We can--"

"That's the exact opposite of what I want." Saying it made his face burn even more, but at least it was out there. Kun's clever fingers stroked through his hair, and he tried not to react too obviously. 

Kun's hand went still. "What do you mean?" 

"You keep stopping. I don't want--to stop. I want..." To keep going. To push further. To make Kun feel good, to let Kun make him feel good in turn. He couldn't say any of it out loud, but he met Kun's eyes determinedly and hoped it came across. He was flushed all through his face, down to his neck.

After a moment, Kun broke eye contact and pulled his hand away, leaving Yangyang cold. He huffed out a laugh. "Ah... Yangyang... Isn't it a little..." He trailed off. 

"What?" Not questioning: daring.

"I don't want to rush you into anything." 

"You're not rushing me into anything. I'm literally asking." And it wasn't even like he was asking for anything big, he thought; he just wanted Kun to let him go further than some furtive, chaste groping when Dejun was out. To prove his point, and also just because he wanted to, he pushed up closer, let the line of his body mirror Kun's, slung a leg over Kun's so that they were pressed flush together. He'd gone a little soft during the conversation, and so had Kun, but that wouldn't be a problem in the next few seconds. He would have come closer, but he was stopped short by Kun's firm, heavy hand on his shoulder. 

"I just want you to--" Kun swallowed. "To think more about this. I don't want you to do anything too soon. It's better like that, to wait." He barely heard it through the rushing in his ears. 

Nausea overtook him so fast that for a moment he almost felt dizzy with it; he pushed it down hard. "Okay," he said, pulling back. Further away from Kun's body, the cold rushed in. When he untangled himself from the blankets, avoiding Kun's gaze, he was grateful that he wasn't hard anymore. A small humiliation avoided.

"Yangyang, we can talk about it more if you want," Kun said. He sat up. He was wearing only a thin white t shirt, and it drooped down, exposing the line of his collarbone, where Yangyang could see the red marks his mouth had left.

"I think it's fine," he said, rushing over his words. "It's fine." He pushed his feet into his house slippers and tried his best not to run out of their room.

  


Later he felt supremely stupid about it. Not about running away--he could forgive himself that much--but about the entire thing. About asking in the first place. Sure, he'd thought that Kun liked him, more than usual even--he was extra touchy, he wanted to give Yangyang extra attention, and then there was the matter of all the kissing--but at the end of the day all of that could probably be easily rationalised away in Kun's mind. He was a leader: he had a lot of pressure on him to give people what they wanted. He gave Xuxi thoughtful conversations and a shoulder to lean on. He gave Ten someone to push back at. He gave Sicheng, Hendery and Dejun indulgence, in whatever different ways they wanted it. And what did he give Yangyang? The human experiences he'd admitted to craving; the attention he clearly, desperately needed; the comfort he desired in whatever way he knew how. So what if that was all he was willing to do? So what if he didn't want the same things Yangyang wanted from him? That wasn't his fault. He couldn't give more than he was able to.

This was what he kept telling himself. It was hard when nothing changed between them on the surface. Kun's touch never lingered more than it had to, but it didn't disappear either. In the mornings, when they all stood around the table wolfing down breakfast, his indulgent grin, the one that brought out the charming dimple at the side of his face, was exactly the same, and he was equally as rough in his joking admonishments. His fingers felt the same when he grabbed the back of Yangyang's neck or gently tapped the side of his face. It was only Yangyang who was putting himself through this. 

Once, early in the morning, waiting for the manager to drop by and tell them that the van was waiting down below, Yangyang sank down into the couch. Everyone was seated except Kun, who was standing by the door. He shifted from foot to foot. It was hard to look at him, but Yangyang drank his fill anyway. It felt so stupid to be so sad about this, especially when no one knew. What was he even denying himself? They lived together--it wasn't like he didn't see Kun all the time, with messy bedhead or crumpled pillow marks on his cheeks, face puffy first thing in the morning, scratching idly at the bare planes of his chest. He just didn't have the right to touch anymore, not that he ever really did. 

He closed his eyes against the thought. Then, in his exhaustion, without quite realising, he fell into an uneasy doze, a state halfway between sleep and waking, wedged between Ten and the arm of the couch. In this state everything felt dreamlike, the soft murmur of the members' voices a background buzz to his repose, every action tinged with the soft pillowy aftertaste of slumber, and so when someone touched his face and whispered, "Wake up, it's time to go," in Kun's voice, Yangyang felt okay turning his face into those familiar fingers. 

It wasn't until Ten's familiar timbre cut through his drowsiness to say, "I think he's dreaming," that Yangyang jerked awake to see Kun staring down at him, a tentative smile on his face.

"Sorry," Yangyang said shortly. He didn't have to look to know that Ten's curious eyes were on him. When he'd first come to Korea, he'd struggled with the concept of aegyo. The performance of it. Now he understood it instinctively; it was simultaneously a defence mechanism and a move to lower others' defences. He widened his eyes and batted his eyelashes a little bit, and Kun stepped back so fast he almost tripped over the table. 

No satisfaction, but it gave him some relief. Was this who he was now? He took Ten's hand to pull himself up, leaned into Ten's warmth. He tried his best not to look at Kun's hands; every time he did, he was reminded of how it felt to wake with his face being cradled, like he was precious.

  


"Do you have filming again tomorrow?" 

"Yes." Kun had a habit of smiling when he talked even if he wasn't happy. His face creased with it so that it always looked natural to him. This wasn't one of those times; his voice was soft, and though he wasn't smiling there was a certain looseness in his shoulders and around his eyes that told Yangyang he was relaxed and content. "Where's Dejun?"

"He's playing games with Xuxi and Sicheng-ge and Hendery. In their room." 

"You're not?"

"I didn't want to." He'd felt tired lately. Everything was pushed together, and though he was friendly it was hard to meet so many new people and learn so much. The Korean lessons were ramping up, and all the filming and photoshoots for different parts of the new album: he couldn't get a moment to himself. Even now, when he'd thought the room would be empty. 

He felt guilty as soon as he had the thought. Kun was working hard too, and it seemed less fun for him. As a group they all came home together, but they were too exhausted to spend any time with each other, and that was maybe the hardest on him. At night he was depleted and quiet; even his smiles were smaller, more self-contained, and it was hard to get a rise out of him. That was maybe the biggest tell of all.

Yangyang settled himself on the bed. From here he had a clear view of Kun's straight back, the thin white t shirt he wore at night, the blonde hair that was now sometimes curly, sometimes straight, and a view too into the mirror, where he could see the furrows of concentration on Kun's handsome face, how his hands moved, patient and steady, gentle with the applicators, gentler with himself.

  


Maybe he was taking the rejection so hard because he'd spent so long imagining the opposite. The first time they kissed, when they'd been lying in bed flicking through their phones, chatting idly in low voices so they didn't disturb Dejun sleeping in the top bunk, the desire had expanded in him like air in a balloon, slow and fizzing. He couldn't even remember what the leadup had been, just that he'd taken the chance to lean forward, slowly so that Kun could stop him if he'd wanted, and press their mouths together, quick and hurried, quiet so that the bed didn't creak, leaning back as soon as he'd done it, embarrassed about how much his inexperience had shone through. Kun smiling, brushing a hand over his face, turning red. Saying, _sure, I didn't know you'd want to_.

And the stupid letdown just a few weeks later. All because Yangyang wanted too much and couldn't keep it in his pants.

He just couldn't stop playing it over and over in his head: the muscles shifting under Kun's back and shoulders, his stocky frame solid and warm against Yangyang's own. The square, capable fingers that Yangyang wanted to take into his mouth and lave with spit, leaving them wet and shiny. Between Kun's legs, the generous heft of his cock. The thought made Yangyang's mouth water involuntarily. If they'd gone further, would Kun have let Yangyang get on his knees? Strangely, this was what he thought about the most: the aftereffects. If his jaw would ache from having Kun's cock stuffed too far down his throat, or if his knees would be bruised. If they'd have to wait until a free day for Kun to split him open on his cock so that afterward Kun could wipe him down gently, tell him to take it easy the next day, that he didn't have to push himself in the practice room. Things Yangyang wanted that he couldn't verbalise because the vulnerability was harder than pulling away and tucking his face against Kun's throat when it got too heated, letting Kun's hands run easy and calm down his hair, over his back, until he felt calmer, less crazy with how much he wanted to flay himself open and give away parts of himself that didn't even exist yet.

He wondered if it was just a case of not getting what he wanted. If maybe he was too used to the easy game and didn't know how to deal with boundaries. But sometimes, all of a sudden, he would pass by Kun in the hallway and catch a glimpse of his fingernails bitten down to the quick and feel himself immobilised: tenderness, a fizzing desire, and on top of it the hot flush of bodily memory, how those same hands had tilted his face up with patience, steadiness.

  


"Does Kun-ge have something on his face?" Lucas said at dinner, ungraceful as always. "Yangyang, you keep looking at him--"

"No!" Yangyang said, maybe too loudly. He could feel the heat from the baijiu creeping up from his chest, making his face red. Kun was avoiding his gaze now, equally as flushed, but Ten, sitting next to him, looked like the proverbial cat with the cream. He always knew too much. 

Inside their room, the overhead light wasn't on, just the desk lamp, and it coated the room in a buttery golden light, a glow that slid across their bedspreads, casting wide shadows with their bedframes, and pooled itself in the hollow of Kun's collarbone, where Yangyang's mouth was busy at work. Every time he touched Kun's stomach, the muscles jumped under his hands; Kun's own hands were fisted in his shirt, pulling Yangyang close to him, his harsh, ragged breath fanning across Yangyang's hair. 

When their lips met, it was as familiar as the last time: the slow catch and slide of their mouths, the way Kun leaned into his space. What was unfamiliar was the way his hands slipped under Yangyang's shirt, the rough slide of his fingertips going up until he'd tugged Yangyang's shirt off and then they were chest to chest, bare skin touching. Yangyang's heart was pounding in his chest, trapped in his throat.

Their eyes met; Kun didn't say anything, but Yangyang said, voice low, "You can keep--I want--" and then stopped. He pressed his lips to the place where Kun's pulse fluttered in his throat, very light, and felt Kun swallow against it, and then moved his lips up to Kun's jaw, feeling the coiled tension in his body, the heat radiating off him that was at least partly product of how much he'd drank that night. 

"Everyone is outside," Kun said. His voice resonated in Yangyang's ear. It wasn't a no--it wasn't even a warning. It was a caution: _be quiet_. Yangyang nodded; he didn't need to be told twice. He kissed Kun again, just briefly, just so he could remind himself of what it felt like, that generous, giving mouth under his, and then pulled himself away to push at Kun's shoulders until they settled themselves on the bed, Yangyang's legs akimbo around Kun's hips. 

Like this he could see Kun laid out in front of him, the strong muscles of his chest and shoulders, the fall of his hair across his forehead, the sturdy thighs underneath his own. It was hard deciding what he wanted to do first, and a kind of shivering giddiness overtook him, a terrified desire, the fear that maybe this would be his only chance, fizzing through his veins and paralysing him. Maybe Kun noticed: he tugged Yangyang down so that for the first time since the last time they were fully horizontal with each other, now bare chest to bare chest, and pulled him into a kiss. 

Bit by bit Yangyang relaxed into it, letting himself do what felt good. It was easier now that he had unspoken permission to go below the neck, and so he just explored for a bit, working his mouth at Kun's collarbone, his hands briefly tweaking Kun's nipples before finding them to be lacking sensitivity, wandering down to the waistband of Kun's sweats before skittishly pulling back again. Kun was just as cautious as he always was, but curiously a bit rougher; maybe it was because he was drunk. His own mouth left a red mark on Yangyang's chest, and his hands wandered briefly below the waist, big and warm on Yangyang's hips. 

Time drifted by; the buttery golden light of the desk lamp left deep, dark shadows where his body covered Kun's own. Outside he could hear the hushed chatter of everyone else, and it didn't remind him to be cautious as much as it put him at ease. Kun's arms were strong, comfortable. He sighed into a kiss.

Finally Kun put a gentle hand on Yangyang's chest to stop him. Their lips broke apart with a slick sound that made Yangyang burn. "Do you think--" Kun began, and Yangyang said,

" _Yes_ ," not caring how desperate he sounded. He didn't want to ask why or how. Kun's thigh was in between his own and he could feel Kun's cock hard against his hip. 

Their gazes met for a second, and Kun studied his face. Then, without asking, he flipped them over with surprising grace; the bed thumped once against the wall and both of them froze, but the noise from outside didn't abate for a second. "They're too busy gaming," Kun said. He grinned, and even in this situation, with his cock tenting his pants, it made Yangyang's heart hammer hard in his chest. 

Now they were face to face again, but Yangyang was looking up at Kun, and his legs were spread around Kun's hips. Their lips met again as Kun leaned down, his hands hot on Yangyang's body; then he pulled away, quickly, and pulled Yangyang's joggers off in one full swoop, leaving him in just his tented boxers, open and vulnerable for Kun's gaze to sweep over him. 

"You too," he said, shifting uncomfortable, and Kun laughed. His face opened up so much when he looked that happy. Now free of his own sweatpants, they were at a level with each other again. The golden lamplight cast shadows over them, limning Kun's hair like a halo but painting darkness into the creases of his face. It didn't matter. They kissed, pushing against each other; Yangyang's body thrilled to the full skin contact. 

"You don't think," he said, and swallowed. "No one's gonna come in?" 

"It'll be fine," Kun said, and kissed him again. A quick swoop of lips. Yangyang's hips pushed up against his belly, seeking friction, and Kun laughed again. Why was he so happy? Yangyang wanted to be there too, but he was frantic instead, blood electric and molten, fizzing with desire and something else he didn't quite understand expanding in his chest. Then Kun's lips moved to his jaw, his collarbone, and then further down his chest, until Yangyang's boxers were tugged down to his knees and Kun's blonde head was between his legs, mouth tender and soft against his inner thighs. His cock was pulsing with blood betwen his legs, but Kun seemed happy enough to press kisses into his thighs, mark him up with his mouth, until Yangyang's fist hit the bed and he hissed betwen his teeth, " _Please!_ " Precome smeared across his stomach from the tip of his cock, a cool ghostly touch where it hit the air.

It was only then that Kun grinned up at him again--a faint impression, Yangyang could only make it out from the flash of his teeth--and pushed Yangyang's cock between his lips, laving the head with spit, lavishing special attention at the sensitive part underneath the crown until Yangyang's legs kicked out from sensitivity and he almost kneed Kun in the ribs. He didn't realise, until Kun looked up at him and put a finger to his lips, that he was being noisy--moaning from the back of his throat, inchoate, cut-off noises that barely made it past his lips, completely involuntary, beyond his control. 

And who was this person, anyway, between his legs? This Kun, confident in his body like Yangyang had never seen him before, a fall of blond hair over his eyes, lips swollen and red, eyelashes brushing his cheek as his head bobbed lower and lower until he'd managed to fit all of Yangyang in his mouth so that the head of Yangyang's cock was nudging at the back of his throat. A person Yangyang hadn't known existed. Patient and steady--his hands at Yangyang's hips so that he wouldn't get choked, mouth hot and wet so that Yangyang had to stuff a fist into his mouth and try his hardest not to scream until suddenly the bubble of tension at the base of his spine popped and he came, legs akimbo, cock spurting into Kun's mouth. 

After it happened he had to lay back for a second, chest heaving with the exertion. Sweat prickled on his skin as it cooled; he was aware of it in strange places, like the back of his knees and even his eyelids when he blinked. His cock was cool and oversensitive now, and the spit from Kun's mouth, along with his own come, was tacky as it dried.

"Okay?" Kun said. He shifted back up to lie next to Yangyang, head propped on one hand and the other resting lightly on Yangyang's chest. 

Dazed, Yangyang could only blink at him. Then he said, the words dragged out of him, "Yes..." He blinked again. "But you..." 

"You don't have to," Kun said. His dimple flashed when he smiled. The thing in Yangyang's chest, which had contracted briefly when he was out of his mind, made itself known again, a yawning empty gape. Like this, bare of everything except his underwear, the muscles in his arms and chest thrown into relief by the dark, gentle shadows of the desklamp, Kun looked nothing like the Kun-ge Yangyang remembered meeting all those years ago in the company. The round-faced boy who ran himself bloody every night and made dinner for them, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

He was just a man, and Yangyang too was a man. They were made equal by nakedness, vulnerability. Still, in his body, Yangyang remembered the impression of Kun's hips between his legs, splitting him apart, leaving him open and defenceless to desire; he wanted that to be equal too.

It was with that in mind that he tugged at the waistband of Kun's briefs, and Kun shed himself of them quickly. When Yangyang wrapped his fingers around the sticky head of his cock, palm sliding down the shaft, a pained sound escaped Kun's mouth, and Yangyang found himself smiling and giddy. Was this what it had been like for Kun, too? A strange sense of power: a ghost echo of pleasure, in watching Kun's cock twitch and jerk and blurt out precome, easing the slide of his fingers. The pleasing weight and heft, the smell in the room, now ripe and musky. His mouth watered and somehow he fell into almost a hypnotic state, losing himself in the feeling of it in his fingers, how to tighten his fingers on the upstroke to make Kun's hips kick towards him, how to loosen his fingers on the downstroke to hear that hissing whine in the back of Kun's throat. When, finally, his cock flexed and he came, Yangyang remembered to look at his face: mouth red from where he'd been biting it to keep down the noise, tendons in his neck tense, expression shadowed and twisted in pleasure. 

After that, he thought it would be awkward, but instead it was busy. Kun hadn't passed out like him: he got up right after and began opening the windows, passing Yangyang wipes, getting rid of all the evidence. Then, unexpectedly, in the middle of carefully swabbing a wipe in between his fingers, he said, "So was that enough for you?" 

"What?" 

"Is that what--you liked it? That was...?" Hearing him speak so bluntly was jarring.

"Yeah, but... That--I--" He didn't know how to continue. He dropped the trash can from where he'd been doing some general tidying and just watched Kun's hands move in the lamplight. "I didn't just want to--you know. Do it." 

The hands paused. "What do you mean? You didn't--?" 

"I liked it!" Yangyang said hurriedly. Then, slower, letting the words pool out of him, "You made me feel comfortable. And good." 

"But?" 

"Why now?" 

Kun turned to face him. The lamp was behind him, so his nose and the sharp cut of his brow pushed shadows over his face. "You wanted it. And I wanted--" He cut himself off and then shook his head in chagrin the way he did whenever he was embarrassed. 

"I wanted to do it with you," Yangyang told his hands. He couldn't make eye contact. "Because you're--" Patient. Steady. He couldn't finish the sentence. "You made me feel good." 

When he dared to look up, he could see the flash of Kun's teeth. A smile. For some inane reason he was reminded of seeing Kun put the lipstick on during Pink Festa filming, how gentle his hands were, how they didn't even shake once when he applied the eyeliner. It was the same now as he strode over, confident, smiling so brightly that even the shadow in his dimple didn't show, and tilted Yangyang's face up for a kiss.

  


* * *

  


> And one day, when I need  
>  to tell myself something intelligent  
>  about love,
> 
> I’ll close my eyes  
>  and recall this room and everything in it:  
>  My body is estrangement.  
>  This desire, perfection.  
>  Your closed eyes my extinction.  
> 

-Li-Young Lee, from ["This Room and Everything in It"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43328/this-room-and-everything-in-it)

**Author's Note:**

> i only realised halfway through writing this that pink festa happened in like december of last yr and i had been writing this to be set during bad alive promos this summer bc fsr i thought the happened at the same time... so for the purposes of this fic they happened at the same time + resonance prep was also going on. 
> 
> this fic owes a lot to helenish (obviously) but most particularly "patience. steadiness." is a horrible shittier ripoff of "patience, a steady hand" lol
> 
> glad to close the year out w/this one. thanks for reading everyone :) & happy birthday qian kun!!!


End file.
